


Murphy's Law

by orphan_account



Category: Ultimate Spider-Man (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, Rough Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Nova's fault for upsetting Peter. Who could blame Peter for being angry over Nova's whiny accusations of "you hate me, don't you?" Peter never intended to prove Nova wrong through such drastic measures. It wasn't as if pinning him to a sidewalk and swabbing tongues would help matters. It couldn't completely hurt, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murphy's Law

Peter had always thought that observing the fact that things couldn't be worse, only to have the words rip open the sky and unleash torrents of rain, happened only in movies.

Peter was wrong.

He really _had_ believed things couldn't grow worse. He had missed a biology exam because Electro had chosen the most inopportune time to cause a power surge through half of Manhattan, and by the time Peter and his team had struggled into their suits and sneaked out of school, Director Fury had called with boiling blood and nearly popped his eyepatch over their lollygagging.

Naturally Peter saw this as tremendously unfair, and held his breath while slinging his way through New York in search of Electro. Being leader, he had demanded––rather harshly, perhaps––that his team split into groups to scour more area. Nonetheless, by the time they arrived, cars were overturned in the streets like building blocks, and skyscrapers lay toppled over the streets like a bad game of Jenga.

This had not improved Fury's mood in the least. Peter was certain that people in Australia felt the tremors of Fury's bellows. Adding insult to injury, Power Man and White Tiger and Iron Fist had not returned.

"Well," Peter said, clinging to the side of a building, "at least things can't get any worse."

Nova shot by in a blue blur, kicked out his heels, and skidded to a stop midair. His jaw hung slack.

"Oh, no, dude. Don't say that. That's a _bad_ idea."

"What?" Peter said, more sharply than he intended. "Holding out thin optimism that this is as bad as it gets?" He snapped up his hand and sent a stream of webbing whizzing through the air. Without waiting for Nova's reply, he swung from the building and swooped over the deserted road.

Nova effortlessly caught up, shooting by with his arms clamped against his sides. Peter suddenly hated how easily Nova could travel, while Peter himself covered the city with cobwebs and nearly tugged his arms from their sockets while swinging.

"Will you buzz off?" he said. His face scrunched in a scowl. "I'm having a bad day."

"It's about to get a heck of a lot worse, nerd." Nova lazily turned to float on his back, slinging his arms over his chest. His arm guards clacked loudly against his breastplates. "One thing anybody should know: never say that it can't get worse. Boyle's law, buddy."

"That's _Murphy's_ law, laser-brain." Peter scoffed and tucked his legs in as he swung over the highway, nearly scraping off his heels on the pavement. One he steadied himself, he asked, "What's gonna happen: a volcanic eruption? Stock market crash? A new ice age?"

Nova toed himself higher into the air, crossing his arms self-righteously. A smug grin spread over his face like warm molasses.

"Just you wait, nerd. You'll see."

Peter rolled his eyes and felt his scowl screw up tighter under his mask. He flung his weight forward, and the braid of webbing in his hand suddenly went slack.

It was as if the next few seconds dragged by in slow motion. He heard a faint snapping noise; then he plummeted. His arms raked the air and wind hissed and whistled in his ears. His heart slammed into his ribs and crushed his breath from his lungs like an anvil. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the explosion of bone and cement when he slammed into the pavement below. He could practically see the bold headline flashing before him: _Spider-Man Dies Falling Off Web._

_Wow. Jameson will have a heyday._

Without warning, he jerked _up_ instead of down, and velocity did the rest. He gulped back a gasp, swallowing his heart and feeling his stomach plop into his heels. His brains wobbled in his skull like warm gelatin, rattling in his ears. All the blood drained from his fingers, leaving them icy and numb. He wondered if he weren't dead and being hauled to heaven by an angel.

The breeze felt sticky and humid. Tentatively, Peter cracked open one eye to peer through the fine knit of his mask. The skyline of New York was buried in tumbling, smoky black clouds, but it was there nonetheless, real as ever. He craned his neck to squint upwards, and once his vision focused, he squawked and went stiff as a fencepost. Nova's grinning face was inches away. A halo of light reflected from his helmet.

"You okay, dude?" Nova said. He hoisted Peter higher, sliding his arms further under Peter's. Peter sagged in Nova's arms like a kitten dangling from its scruff. Peter glanced down between his feet at the ribbons of roads and highways far below.

Finally, Peter sighed and said, "Was _that_ what you were talking about?"

Nova gave a quiet little puff of a laugh, as though he knew something Peter didn't. A surge of anger made Peter's fist clench.

"That was just a nice surprise," Nova said. "Too bad I didn't have time to grab my phone and catch a shot of you falling to your doom. The doom that _I_ saved you from."

"Yeah, yeah. My hero." Peter twisted his neck to glare up at Nova. "Will you just put me down, now?"

Nova pressed his tongue into the corner of his mouth, pretending to consider. "Nah," he said at last. "As fun as it would be to see you get soaked, I'll do the right thing and get us somewhere safe."

"Safe? Soaked?" Peter's tone suggested that the words were of some Martian dialect. "What are you talking about, bu—-"

Before he could finish, a deep, rolling rumble shook the world below. Trees shifted in the breeze. Grass rippled as a green ocean.

Peter looked up at Nova, whose mouth had flattened into a line. Peter stared into the distance.

"If that's Rhino busting up North Manhattan, I swear I'm going to—-"

"That's not the Rhino, webhead," Nova said, as though he were talking to a toddler. "It's a _storm._ What, did you totally miss that cesspool of clouds up there?"

"Well, now that you mention it," Peter replied snidely. He cast a worried glance overhead. Had those clouds been swirling so violently a minute ago? Even as he watched, the sludgy black masses lit up with an eerie green glow. In the distance, a crackly vine of lightning shot into the city in a dazzling flash. Peter squinted. The wind felt tingly, as if full of millions of invisible burrs.

All at once, the bottoms of the clouds ripped loose in stringy fibers. Torrents of rain gushed down like Niagara Falls, shooting down in thick sheets. Every drop pounded into Peter with the force of bullets. Drops _pinged_ off Nova's brass helmet and shattered in a mist.

"Get us down from here!" Peter shouted. The roar of rain drowned his voice into a hum. He struggled, swinging from side to side on Nova's arms like a shirt on a hanger swaying in the breeze. Nova curled his arms around Peter's shoulders to steady him.

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" Nova snapped, but a streak of desperation made his voice a pitch higher than usual. He hefted Peter higher, bent his knees, and dove toward the ground. A glittering trail of light streamed behind him, caught in the fog and rain. The gale pushed heavy against Peter, and he wondered if this was how a car windshield felt.

Just when Peter thought Nova would piledrive him into the sidewalk, Nova vaulted backwards and bumped to a halt midair. Peter jolted, crushing Nova's hands in his armpits. Nova ripped his hands back and inhaled sharply, wringing them with a grimace. Peter's feet popped against the ground, and he staggered forward a few steps. Dizziness swam in his head, shooting fireworks of color behind his eyelids.

"See what happens when you try to defy Murry's law?" Nova said, sticking his sore fingers into his mouth to suck away the ache. The hollow white eyes of his helmet glared accusingly at Peter.

Peter didn't bother to correct Nova. He trudged toward the nearest building––a tattoo parlor probably built in the 1800s––and plopped to the ground, leaning heavily against the side of the building. Peeling paint flaked off, crusting over the back of Peter's suit. He groaned, bumping his head against the wall.

"Why didn't they put any stupid awnings around here?" he grumbled, more to himself than to Nova. He settled himself, drawing his knees up to his chest. His soggy suit wrinkled with every movement and clung to him like a second skin. Peter shuddered. His hair was pasted to his face, and he was hot and sticky, and he smelled of sweat, and overall he felt like the inside of an oyster. He fumbled to grasp the edge of his mask and peeled it away from his face, rolling it over the bridge of his nose to expose his twisted scowl.

Nova stood in the rain. It drummed against his helmet and rolled down to gather in heavy drops on the edge. Once weighed down, the drops fell to pool in the dip of his collarbone. He shifted from boot to boot awkwardly.

"You really can't say I didn't warn you, Park––"

"Will you just cork it, Sam?" Peter didn't realize how sharp he sounded until Nova stepped back, his eyes wide. Peter clamped his teeth into his tongue and held his breath, willing the rage to melt away. He dug his fingers into his knee hard enough to leave bruises, but a temporal bruise was better than letting Nova realize he was the target of violent fantasies. Peter sucked in a shaky breath.

"I didn't mean to yell at you. Like I said, I'm having a lousy day."

"Yeah. I noticed." Nova paused. "Sorry about that. Like, I can go look for the guys if you need some space. You know." With every botched attempt at apology, Nova edged back further, sneaking from toe to heel until he bumped into a lamppost. Metal clanged against metal, and Nova winced.

Peter wanted to laugh, but somehow, he couldn't even crack a smile. He crammed himself further against the wall and sighed.

"Don't worry about it. No need to go rocketing through a bunch of storm clouds. The team's not as dumb as we are; they'll get out of the rain."

Nova remained rooted in place for a minute, glancing warily from side to side. Then, like a whipped puppy, he slunk toward Peter, cautiously easing down beside him. He made sure to tuck his legs against his front, strenuously trying to avoid touching Peter. When he bent his legs, his leather suit squeaked.

"Dude," Nova said. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That wasn't me, man."

"Did you hear me say anything, Sam?" Peter said, the mesh eyes of his mask narrowing. "You're grinding on my nerves. I'm hot and wet and sore and in it deep with Mister Angry Eyepatch, and the last thing I want is to hear your constant non-stop jawing _._ Look, I'm trying to keep my cool here, but you're making it really, _really_ hard for me to do that. So do me a favor and just _zip_ it for a minute, would you?"

Nova sat still. His gaze fixated on something far in the distance. His mouth twitched a bit, as though he were going to say something, but decided against it. His breathing sounded thin and hollow in his helmet.

Peter quickly turned his head before his conscience smarted with guilt. _Way to go, Pete,_ he thought in disgust. Why was it so easy to lose his temper? One would believe that he would've learned to be careful when he was angry, but it seemed that Nova could just blink and cause Peter's hands to itch with rage. _Carpal tunnel, my foot. Diagnose me with a bad case of the Novas._

"Hey … Parker?" Nova looked straight ahead, motionless. His jaw shifted. "Parker … why do we hate each other so much?"

Peter felt as though he had just been sliced a jab to the gut. His lungs went flat as deflated balloons. He whipped around to stare at Nova.

"Hate each other? Sam, we don't … we don't _hate_ each other. You make me mad and get on my nerves and I have to fix everything you screw up, but I don't _hate_ you. Why would you––what would even make you think something stupid like that?"

A rueful smile cranked up half of Nova's mouth. "Heck if I know. I don't have a clue."

Peter almost missed the bitter trace of sarcasm, but when he realized, he buckled down, grinding his teeth to keep from retorting. Insults and comebacks began to pile in his throat, clumping behind his tongue, but he knew if he let them loose, he and Nova would bicker until next summer, possibly next Christmas. He had no desire either to humor him or tease him into an argument, but Nova's quiet question ricocheted through his head like a ping-pong ball: "Why do we hate each other?"

Peter squeezed his hand into a knot that shook. _Where does he get off saying something like that? Saying that I hate him. Buddy, if I did hate him, he'd know about it. After everything we've gone through––after that hangup with the Guardians of the Galaxy, even––he still has the nerve to say I hate him! Idiot, idiot, idiot, Sam, idiot. Okay, Pete,_ he told himself, _get a grip. Don't lose it._

Oblivious to Peter's struggle, Nova shifted and slid his arms around his legs to hold them closer. He lowered his gaze to stare at the clumps of grass that sprouted from the cracks in the sidewalk.

"Look, you can deny it all you want so you can seem all heroic and good and stuff, but there's no need. You don't like me, and to be honest, I don't see too much in you, either. So if it makes you feel better––"

"Sam, why on _earth_ do you think anything you could do would make me feel better?" Peter felt as though his composure was a spool of yarn unraveling faster than he could clutch at it, and his resolve to stay calm was dissolving into nothing. His breath snagged deep in his throat, and all at once, everything was miserable. The humid, soupy air suffocated him. The rain stung. His shoulders ached. His suit felt as though it had been shrink-wrapped to his body, and absolutely nothing could be worse. Nothing.

Nova turned his head. His helmet clanked against the wall. Slowly, his shoulders inched up in a defensive shrug.

"No wonder you don't have many friends," he muttered against his shoulder. He crunched tighter against the wall before adding: "You make it too hard."

Peter sat like a boulder, winded with disbelief. It was as if the logic and reason in his mind fizzled and went out. Nothing was left except boiling red rage. It seeped hot and painful down into his arm. Lava rushed into his fingers. His whole body began to burn, and before he could stop himself, his anger boiled over.

He lashed out one arm, wrapped his fist in Nova's collar, and yanked him to the side. Nova yapped in surprise, but half of the yelp faded when Peter shoved his fingers under his helmet to pry it away from his face. He moved faster than he ever had dodging enemy fists. Stunned, Nova sagged from his collar, his eyes pinched with fear. Peter's hand slid under the bottom of his helmet, and Nova pulled his shoulders up in a cringe. Peter's wet hand skidded down Nova's hot cheek, his fingers groping over his face until they hooked over his jaw.

Before Nova could vault away, Peter twisted his hand to the back of Nova's neck, scraping for a grip on the prickly hair. Nova barely had time to wince before Peter slammed his head forward.

It was as though they were moving in a different time; milliseconds limped by like hours. Something drummed in Peter's forehead, and suddenly his lungs felt were nothing more than empty bags. Peter saw Nova's mouth drop open like a bear-trap, his tongue flattening in a pool of spit. His throat jerked and tightened under his collar when he gulped, but he barely swallowed before Peter's nose crushed into his.

A gasp nearly split Nova's throat as Peter scraped his hands over his cheek, squishing his face between his flattened palms to draw him close enough to press their chins together. Peter curled his fingertips into Nova's cheeks, digging them in hard enough to make white marks fan over his skin. Nova tightened up, drawn tense as a rubber band, as though crunching up like a turtle into its shell would help.

With all the calculating rage of a hangman, Peter squeezed Nova's face tighter and jerked him forward. There was no time to haul away or duck or pound Peter's face into pureèd hamburger: Nova stared hollowly into the flat eyes of Peter's mask for what felt to be a hundred years before their mouths squished together.

Nova's eyes widened and his breath hitched. Peter stared back. Wrinkles bunched around his nose. His lips parted for a millisecond before clamping shut. Nova's chapped, papery lips scraped against his like sandpaper, and when he moved his mouth, Nova whined something that sounded vaguely like " _santo gimnasio!"_

The sharp exclamation poured right into Peter's mouth and down his throat, buzzing against his teeth and making heat melt down into his stomach. The jitter sent neon crackles lassoing Peter's commonsense, roping him down until he felt nothing other than Nova. It was as though his entire body went numb and every nerve lit like firecrackers in his mouth.

As if drawn by magnets, Nova's hands crept upwards to clutch at Peter's shoulders. His fingers bent, digging heavily into the knots of bone. Vicious in intent, but weak as a puppy in execution, Nova slouched, and his jaw unhinged a degree for breath.

Peter tilted Nova's head forward, splaying his thumbs against the inside of his helmet. He wasn't sure _what_ instinct prompted him, but the instant he felt Nova's mouth loosen, he bumped his head closer, tightened his chin until his temples ached, and stuffed his tongue between Nova's teeth.

With a yelp, Nova raked his fingers down Peter's arms until he clutched at his elbows, gripping them with all the force he could muster. A shudder zipped down his back to make him shake, and he clung to Peter, nearly doubling over. Peter grunted, but it sounded like a puff of breath when it globbed up behind his tongue. Almost without realizing it, he slipped one hand from beneath Nova's helmet, skated his fingers down his neck and over the knoll of his collarbone, and pressed his palm flat against his chest. Slowly, he passed his hand over Nova's ribs to the firm platters of muscle in his back, curling his arm around him to force him closer.

With all the hungry fury of a shark, he bent over Nova, rubbing his tongue over the ridges of his clamped teeth. Peter vaguely noticed the faint, buttery taste of the mayonnaise from the chicken salad sandwiches from lunch. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, but clamped his arm around Nova to pin him down while he scoured his tongue through his mouth. The more vigorously he licked, the further down he leaned, nearly laying on top of Nova. He smelled sourly of warm city rain mixed with sweat, as though he were ripening underneath his leather suit.

Something began to hammer in Peter's temples, thumping heavily behind his eyes. He curled his fingers under Nova's back, groping at the hard plates of muscle. Peter felt as though his chest would pop. With a sharp inhale, he clenched his fist under Nova, tensed, and lurched back. His tongue unglued from the roof of Nova's mouth with a sticky, slick _smack._

Time froze. Nova stared up at him, his mouth hanging open. Peter stared back, heaving. Rain splattered over his back. Droplets rang against Nova's helmet. Peter swallowed. The salty aftertaste of mayonnaise melted through his mouth.

A rumble of thunder shook the clouds, and realization drove through Peter's heart like a bullet. He breath clogged his throat and he rocked forward a little, catching himself on his elbows. His nose was inches from Nova's. He clawed at the soaked edge of his mask to peel it away and tore it from his head. His eyes were wide as ping-pong balls, bright and hard behind his scraggy bangs.

"What … the heck."

Peter blinked at the sandy roughness in his voice. Nova stayed still as a stone, and Peter wondered whether the words had come out or he had imagined them while they got stuck in the pit of his throat. He gulped back the solid knot, but it felt as though the spit clumped and made it larger.

"What the _heck,_ " he said again. Rain dribbled off his bangs into Nova's face. Peter slammed his weight onto his forearms and shoved himself up, launching backwards. He scrambled on the sidewalk, scratching at the pavement to catch himself. His fingers made a _skrittch_ ing sound on the cement. In a soggy heap, he lay, horrified, staring at Nova as if he were a viper. His ribs nearly cracked around his lungs as he sucked in the soupy air like a vacuum. His face was pale as an egg. He felt his cheeks stinging and knew ugly roadmaps of purple veins were showing up through the red.

 _Let the middle of Marian Avenue crack open and suck me in,_ Peter prayed. If the ground had trembled and the street gaped open, Peter would have dove into its maw without a backwards glance. He tightened his fists and thrust his tongue against the inside seam of his lips. A lump flamed hot and tender where Nova's teeth had nicked him.

 _That's gonna haunt me,_ Peter thought in disgust. _That's gonna haunt me for the rest of this week._

Peter wished he could shove his fingers into his hair and rip out every wet clump by the roots. Maybe, just maybe if he could, the suffocating urge to scream wouldn't be as shameful.

Slowly, Nova pressed his arms against the pavement, wedged them back, and propped himself up to lean on his elbows. His eyes were hollow and flat as always. He faced Peter for a long time. He didn't move. He seemed to barely breathe. He lay, balanced on his arms, rain drumming over him and sounding like smattered applause.

Somehow, Nova's calculating silence more than anything else made Peter want to curl under a newspaper stand and die.

The thunder roared overhead, rattling the windows in the buildings. A gust of wind drove the rain sideways. In the distance, a car alarm blared.

Peter didn't know how long he sat in place, growing moss under his damp backside, before Nova spoke.

"I thought you said you didn't hate me." His voice was raw as lox and eerily quiet.

Peter jolted, as if a wave started from his toes and swelled upwards. For some reason, his pruny fingers shot up to his neck, but he caught himself, wondered why, and lowered his hand.

"Sam," he said, forcing a casual breeze into his tone, "Sam, I don't––"

"Then _why?_ "

Knocked off guard, Peter skittered around the question. "W––what?"

"Why _._ Why in the world would you do something like … ." Unable to finish, he let the sentence hang awkwardly, but Peter knew enough.

"I was … . I was _mad_ , Sam. You know that," Peter said desperately. "We all do stupid things when we're mad. Nobody can think straight like that."

"Boy, can't we!"

" _Sam_ ," Peter said, his whiny voice twisting. "I didn't––I didn't mean to do anything. I swear I didn't. You just made me mad, and I couldn't, I mean, I didn't want to." His words minced and piled over the others until the apology was just a sour tangle on his tongue. He clamped his teeth together.

Nova sat upright, his slick suit squeaking. Bending forward, he curled his hands around his helmet and tugged it from his head. When he leaned back, his eyes were squinted and his peaks of hair crushed flat. A frown bent his mouth and shallow wrinkles bunched between his eyebrows. His glare was both accusatory and wary, as though he feared Peter would lunge for him a second time.

Peter felt like the puddles of water that lay stagnant and yellow in the potholes. Greasy, slimy, and cold. All at once, the strangely real understanding dawned on him like the sun after winter solstice. He hadn't just had Nova pinned to the ground; it had been Sam, too.

Peter wanted to stuff his fist down his throat to beat back a yell.

_How should that make any difference? Of course there's no difference. None. Zilch. It's too obvious. A helmet can't change anything. A groundhog and its grandma could know that. Why should a metal lampshade over his head make it any easier?_

The fact had loomed visible and tantalizingly obvious but distant, like a squirrel on a limb two stories above a hound. But even as Peter grilled himself, he knew why.

The bucket was impersonal. It turned Sam into nothing more than a sidekick: unnecessary luggage strapped onto Peter's back by Fury. It even _looked_ impersonal: empty eyes, a cold metallic gleam. Not many consequences tagged along with berating the bucket. It was just a brass can balanced over an empty head.

But when Sam slid the helmet off, he wasn't a superhero or a teammate or a sidekick or even Peter's responsibility. He was the kid that was living in Peter's room. The same annoying shortstop who shared the same classes at Midtown High. The one who tagged after Peter's aunt and wriggled his way into Peter's circle of friends.

With Nova, Peter could bark orders and swoop beyond the reaches of swinging fists and forget about life outside of uniform for a few moments. But with Sam, there weren't any wild distractions of slobbering symbiotes or sleazy six-armed scientists. Peter had to look directly into his face and bravely suffer the kidney-shriveling glares. He would have to crank his mouth into a grin and scoff when Aunt May asked what he had done to make Sam so upset. And he would have to stare hollowly at the ceiling each night, listening to Sam's dry honking snores while unable to forget the taste of secondhand chicken salad in his mouth.

He rather wished a jagged streak of lightning would pierce the clouds and home in on him as a target. At least if he were a pile of ash smeared over the sidewalk, he wouldn't have to worry about dealing with guilt.

 _Where's your brain today, Pete?_ he asked himself. _Up your––_

Sam slammed his helmet onto the ground with an ear-ringing clank. Peter jolted, knocked from his reverie.

"Sam," he said again. A desperate yet resigned note made his voice sound drained and tired. "I really didn't mean it. Honest. You _know_ I wouldn't. Never in a bazillion years. I don't know what got into my head."

Sam looked into the distance, peering past the tumbling black clouds. Rain pelted him in dime-sized drops, but he barely flinched. Peter felt as though he were suffocating.

"So … . " Sam pressed his tongue into his cheek, considering. Finally, he looked at Peter. "So it wasn't because … well … " He fidgeted. "You know."

Peter considered this convoluted question for a minute, then choked on his tonsils.

"No _way._ You are literally the last person in the nine worlds that I'd want to do _anything_ with, _ever._ If I had to choose between the Goblin or you, I'd go with the Goblin. No, scratch that. If I had to choose between you or Loki, I'd pick Loki. Wait. Hang on. If I had to decide between you or Doc Ock, I would jump into a ballgown and hitch a ride down the aisle with the good old doc himself."

Sam dubiously tilted his head forward and squinted, as though he were surveying Peter under a microscope. "Mean it? Like, you promise it didn't mean anything? Because if it did … well, I'm transferring to a station in Arizona. You aren't lying or anything, are you? Swear?"

"On my aunt's _life,_ " Peter said. He winced a little and hoped Aunt May was under shelter.

Sam stared between his knees at the dark pavement. His eyes closed, and his cheeks ballooned with a deep, relieved sigh. It was as though he had just been released from death row. His shoulders sagged.

"You had me going there for a minute," he said, uncharacteristically quiet. He scrutinized the shiny bits in the sidewalk with utmost interest, and reached down between his knees to pick at a little jutting piece of mica. Peter waited, struggling to squelch the impatience that flared in his gut.

"So, uh, was that––it––was it––well, was it any good?" Sam squeezed his eyes shut then, his jaw jutting to one side in a grimace.

Peter sat like a clod. "What?"

" _It_ ," Sam said in the same way he would address a preschooler. He flinched, bent over, and pressed his hands against his head. "Ugh, why am I even … . Dude, I am so gonna kill you later when nobody's around. I'm gonna tear you up. I'll rip you more new ones than even your science-y smart brain can count. But … like … how was it? I mean"––he sucked in a deep breath––"did you _like_ it?"

Peter's eyes widened, and his heart oozed down into his stomach. _You have got to be kidding me. Is he seriously wanting to know if he's a good kisser? Is this honestly for real? Figures,_ he thought in disgust. _This is Sam we're talking about. The ego bigger than Manhattan. Well, I'm in it this deep. Might as well hold my breath and take the plunge. It can't get any worse, right?_

"Actually," he said, angling his eyebrows with a crooked grin, "you're absolutely horrible."

He wasn't sure exactly what reaction he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't a crestfallen frown.

"I am?" Sam said miserably.

"Totally. Come to think of it, I'd rather neck with a anteater, if I had my druthers. At least they'd make better use of their ton––"

"Par _ker!_ " Horrified, Sam shoved his knuckles against his mouth. Peter couldn't tell if he was pushing back laughter or puke.

"Dude, I'm kidding," he said. He paused. "Kind of." He slouched, resting his elbows on his knees, clutching his mask in one hand. He sighed and hung his head low. His sopping bangs dangled like a curtain over his face.

"Are you still going to kill me? Because you'll have a lot to explain to Aunt May, whenever she realizes I'm gone."

Sam peered into the foggy horizon. Mist swirled around the peaks of skyscrapers. A few blades of sunlight began to pierce the scraggly clouds.

"No, I guess not," he said at last. "I don't want to get Fury's eyepatch itchy. He'll give me the boot for sure. So you're on dry land for now; no thanks to you. I want to stay with S.H.I.E.L.D as long as I can." He cut a sidelong glare at Peter. "It wouldn't be worth losing that just to give a disgusting little creep like you his just desserts."

Peter could barely swallow. His spit thickened like glue in his mouth. "So can we just say that we're cool? You know, for the sake of team morale, all that? Because I really, really don't want this getting out, if you know what I mean."

"Call it what you want. _Cuantos menos se diga, mejor_. There's no way I'm going to be waltzing around blabbing about this one. I'd hate for somebody to get a wrong idea." He shuddered for emphasis, made a wretched face, and lifted his helmet to slide it over his head again. He reverted to being a shiny tin can in a leather suit, and Peter suddenly felt a lot less guilty about the thought that splattered in the front of his mind.

With a longsuffering sigh, Nova locked his elbows against his sides and toed himself a couple of inches above the ground. A glare from the sunlight angled off his armor as he moved. Peter jerked on his mask, thrust out his arm and sent a rope of webbing launching toward a balcony. He bunched the strings in his fists before swinging alongside Nova.

"Hey, moonboy?"

Nova rolled his eyes. "What?"

"Little piece of advice for the future from your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Brush your teeth after lunch. Chicken salad doesn't taste as good when somebody else ate it, first."

"I am going to kill you, Parker."

"Hey, I said it was friendly advice for next time. Just trying to help. I'm just happy we didn't have tuna casserole or cheese soup."

"You're _dead_!"

Peter laughed while he sent another braid of webbing sailing through the air. "Sure thing, laser-brain. You know I can always turn you to mush on the inside!"

"Oh, my go–– … ugh!" Nova pressed the heels of his hands over his face in exasperation, muttering various and presumably colorful words against his palms.

Peter was grateful for a mask to conceal his grin. Things couldn't be worse, but somehow, in a twisted way and despite the fact that Peter would be reaping consequences for days and possibly weeks: things couldn't really have been any better, either.


End file.
